MACH. The day grows old in hours: Come, Auristella, to the capital; The greybeard senate shall on humble knees Pay a religious sacrifice of praise Unto thy demi-deity: the stars Have in a general senate made thee queen Of this our world. Great master of thy art, Confirm my love. ANT. Madam---- MACH. Nay, hear him, love; Believe me, he's a man that may Be secretary to the gods; he is alone In art; 'twere sin to name a second: all are Dunces to him. ANT. How easy is the faith of the ambitious! [_Aside._ MACH. Follow me to the council. [_Exit._ AUR. Are you the man my husband speaks so high of? Are you skill'd i' the stars? ANT. Yes, madam. AUR. Your habit says, or you abuse the custom,[35] You're a physician? ANT. Madam, I'm both.[36] AUR. And d'ye find no let that stops my rising? ANT. Not any. AUR. Away, your skill is dull--dull to derision. There is a star fix'd i' the heaven of greatness, That sparkles with a rich and fresher light Than our sick and defective taper. ANT. It may be so the horoscope is troubled. AUR. Confusion take your horoscope and you! Can you with all your art advise my fears, How to confound this constellation? ANT. Death, how she conjures! [_Aside._ Madam, I must search into the planets. AUR. Planet me no planets; be a physician, And from your study of industrious poisons Fetch me your best-experienc'd speedy one, And bring it to me straight: what 'tis to do, Like unresolved riddles, [is] hid from you. [_Exit._ ANT. Planet, said I? upon my life, no planet Is so swift as her never-resting evil-- That is her tongue: well, I'll not question What the poison is for; if for herself, The common hangman's eas'd the labour Of a blow; for if she live, her head Must certain off; the poison I'll go get, And give it her, then to the king: If Sebastiano's Frenchified disguise Purchase the like discovery, our eyes Will be too scanty; we had need to be All eye to watch such haughty villany. [_Exit._ _Enter_ GIOVANNO _and_ PHILIPPA. GIO. Begare, madam, me make de gowne so brave; O, de hole vorle[37] be me patron; me ha vorke for le grand duches le Shevere, le royne de Francia, Spagna, de Angleter, and all d' fine madamosels. PHIL. Nay, monsieur, to deprive desert of praise is unknown language; troth, I use it not; nay, it is very well. GIO. Be me trot, a, madam, me ner do ill, de English man do ill, de Spanere do, de Duch, de all do ill but your Franchman, and, begare, he do incomparable brave. PHIL. Y' are too proud on't. GIO. Begare, me no proud i de vorle, me speak be me trot de trut, ang me no lie: metra, madam, begare, you have de find bode a de vorle, O de fine brave big ting me have ever measure, me waire fit it so pat.[38] _Enter_ RAYMOND.